


Dispatches From a Lonely Android

by crimsonsenya



Series: Post-Apocalyptic Poetry or Moments Lost In Time [2]
Category: Blade Runner (Movies), Daft Punk, Electronic Dance Music RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, M/M, Rebellion, Replicants, Space Husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-24
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2019-03-06 13:35:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13412379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonsenya/pseuds/crimsonsenya
Summary: Fragments of a back story to Binary Sonnets.





	Dispatches From a Lonely Android

**Author's Note:**

> A warning: the fic is unbetaed, and English is not my first language. I recommend reading Binary Sonnets first.

Year 2000  


 

His new body had felt like what it was, brand new, unused. The neck pain that had afflicted him for years was gone, but his muscle control was non-existent as if he had suffered from a long convalescence. The nerve connections would start to regrow quickly with a couple of months of intense rehabilitation he had been told. Because he had insisted on seeing their bodies as soon as he woke up, Guy-Manuel had been rolled into the morgue in a wheelchair. Lying there on a metal table, his own body was unrecognizable with its bloated face and limbs and its discolored skin. He did not linger. What he wanted to see was pulled over right next to his own corpse. His friend was still recuperating from the same procedures he had gone through himself. Guy-Manuel had been shown Thomas’ new body hooked on the monitors that displayed both a beautiful heartline and an active brainwave. His friend was in REM sleep, arranging his memories like a computer operation system would defragment a hard drive. Yet, seeing his friend’s original body, so still in death, brought tears in his eyes. Guy-Manuel stood up from his wheelchair leaning on the edge of the metal gurney, arms shaking.

 

“Mon ami, mon amour,” he whispered at the cold silence of the room. In that moment right there, he realized he didn’t just love his friend. He was in love with him. The sight of Thomas’ matted curls, his gaunt, bruised face, and the lifeless rigidness of his nimble fingers broke Guy-Manuel’s heart, and he understood with crystal clarity why Thomas had opted for the secretive experimental treatment. If their situation had been reversed, Guy-Manuel would have made the exact same choice in a heartbeat to save him. He bent over to kiss the forehead of Thomas’ old body and asked to be wheeled back into the room where the new version of Thomas lay. 

 

Year 2003

 

The physical part of their relationship first took place during the end days of the short World War Terminus, after they had lost all their family members and friends along the entire city of Paris in one massive, fiery blast of a hydrogen bomb. Paris had not been the only city hit, but also New York, Moscow, and Beijing became giant craters in one swoop. When the bombs struck, first attacks and counter-measures occurring within minutes from each other, Guy-Manuel and Thomas had been watching an inane in flight movie starring Hugh Grant on a Concorde over the Atlantic. The captain announced that they couldn’t contact Charles de Gaulle for landing permission, probably due to technical difficulties, so the plane would divert to Heathrow Airport in London. They had stayed in London for two months, because they simply couldn’t wrap their heads around where else they should go. They had no home anymore. All their material possessions -including two robotic helmets and two laptops filled with music- fitted three suitcases. Their home country was at war, but there were no troops fighting in front lines. The nuclear blasts had been the culmination of post-9/11 tensions mounting. The denouement was swift. The attacks were universally condemned and peace negotiations were finished in a month by those elected officials that were still alive. Guy-Manuel and Thomas could barely comprehend the enormity of what had been lost. It had been a question of few hours. If they hadn’t left New York exactly when did, they would have died in either city, Paris or New York. BBC ran constant aerial footage from the destroyed cities. They stared at the television until their eyes blurred and heads ached, but they still couldn’t believe what they saw was real. 

 

Eventually, they had to travel back to France, to witness the destruction with their own eyes. They managed to book a hotel room in the commune of Fontainebleau, the closest you could actually get to the exclusion zone around the former capital. The town was filled with displaced Parisians like them, and the general mood was beyond somber. The red and gray decor of their room reminded of blood and ashes. They would have laid awake on their bed at night, if they hadn’t drunk until they passed out. After two bottles of Syrah, Thomas would start crying in Guy-Manuel’s arms, whereas he himself remained utterly numb and dry-eyed. One night, Thomas begged him.

“Please, make me feel something else besides this pain.” Thomas had been half naked already. He had been pressing his face into the hollow of Guy-Manuel’s neck, burrowing under his t-shirt and boxers, ever closer to skin. Guy-Manuel’s body had been wide awake, even through the heavy haze of alcohol and the stupor in his heart. He had wanted Thomas for so long, and if it was something that would comfort his friend, Guy-Manuel would do it. He grabbed Thomas by his curls and flipped him over switching their positions. Did they even own enough condoms and lube between them for what Guy-Manuel wanted to do to him? 

“Look at me, Thomas. It’s me, and I want you,” he said. Thomas was dazed, but he gazed back at Guy-Manuel with a conscious plea in his eyes, widening his thighs apart to cradle Guy-Manuel’s hips, their hardening cocks lining up. They kissed for the first time, long enough to loose track of everything outside their bed. Guy-Manuel stopped thinking, giving over to his instincts to ravish and cherish the person he was in bed with, his best friend, the only person he had left in the world. 

 

Much later, Thomas confessed to him that he had known he was in love with Guy-Manuel in Fontainebleau. He had realized that if he could have chosen to save just one Parisian from the blast, it would have been Guy-Man, anyway. 

 

 Year 2005

 

There was only one holographic picture Guy-Manuel kept of the two of them unmasked. All forms of recorded data became dangerous, when they started taking part in the rebellion, and might have been used to track them down. They also needed to conceal the fact that the two of them did not age at a regular pace. Therefore, Guy-Manuel cherished this one memento from the time they were truly making history. The picture had been taken inside their first living module on Mars. Before the giant habitation domes were erected on the surface, the rectangle modules were built underground to keep them protected from the elements of the harsh planet. The carbon fiber ceramic walls inside the module were painted matte gray. On the wall above their beds hung their dearest treasure, an original _Phantom of the Paradise_ movie poster. The opposite wall had been lined up with their studio gear, and the back end of the module had been reserved for a modest kitchen nook. At the other end, a small foyer by the only door led to an even smaller bathroom. Its shower cubicle was so tiny you couldn’t turn around in it, so there were no long soaks in bath tubs or shower sex happening in Mars. 

 

The photo had been taken by Julian, the first replicant they came to call a friend. Julian or J4114-CB9 had been assigned by the Corporate Authorities as a combined bodyguard, chauffeur, and roadie for them. Their own assignment at the Mars Colony was mainly in entertainment and, secondly, in technological support.

 

“We can’t call you J-4-1-1-4. You’re not a drum machine,” had been the first thing Thomas said to Julian after he had reported for duty. Guy-Manuel had been moping over by their coffee machine, absolutely adamant against the corporate requirement to have a replicant at their beck and call like some old-world man-servant. “Do you mind if I give you a name, a human name I mean?” Thomas asked. 

“Sir, my purpose is to follow your orders.” Guy-Manuel flinched as he heard the replicant’s reply. Thomas coughed. 

“How about we call you Julian for now? And it’s not an order. If you find out you prefer another name, we’ll start calling you that. And please, drop the sir. My name is Roulé.”

“Yes, sir, Roulé. I will be Julian from now on. If you like.” Guy-Manuel didn’t have to glance at Thomas to know he was pressing his thumb and forefinger at the base of his nose to ward off a headache. 

“My friend here is called Crydamoure. Crydamoure, please, say hello to Julian.” Reluctantly, Guy-Manuel turned towards his friend and the new replicant.

“Bonjour, Julian.” Guy-Manuel greeted, quietly. The name Thomas had given the replicant was uncanny. This Julian looked like their old friend, the same brown eyes with their droopy eyelids, the similar shape of his face, the same generous mouth. For a moment, Guy-Man suspected Tyrrell Corporation was modeling their replicants after past celebrities. “I think Julian’s a beautiful name,” he added. Thomas beamed at him like Guy-Manuel had passed some kind of a test. 

 

Since Julian seemed fascinated with photographs, they gave him a camera as a present, which he immediately put to use. Thomas and he had to delete most of the pictures later, but in the saved one, the two of them were lounging in their thermal wear on Thomas’ bed. The modules in Mars were kept on the even temperature of 19 degrees Celsius, but the corridors between modules and any public spaces beside green houses were only kept at 14 degrees to conserve energy. You never felt very warm in the colonies. They used to have their own cots, but they had preferred sleeping together like two interlinked commas in Thomas’ bed. They had probably been playing around with chords and samples that would soon be molded into tracks for _Human After All_. You could see the head and the tuners of Guy-Manuel’s guitar lying on the pillow. Thomas had his long arm wrapped around Guy-Manuel’s shoulder, his hand resting loosely over Guy-Manuel’s biceps. In turn, Guy-Manuel had been grasping Thomas’ thigh. They were both glancing straight at Julian’s camera. He must have said something funny, because you could see an unashamedly cute smile dancing over Thomas’ face. Guy-Manuel remembered he had been amused too himself, there was a certain lightness in him, that was probably lacking without Thomas' presence. Both their faces were youthful and would remain so for a lifetime, yet their eyes had already looked eerily timeless. 

 

They had loved each other for almost all their lives, yet their relationship had been relatively new at that point. It had been clear to both of them though, that choosing the treatment and leaving Earth together had been as good as marriage. 

 

Year 2007

 

Julian was also the first replicant they buried. A replicant’s lifetime was even more a blink of an eye than a human’s. Dead replicants were headed for the incinerator, but Guy-Manuel and Thomas payed off the officer in charge of the disposal and transported Julian’s casket outside of the dome on the back of a rover. There was no trouble exiting through the pressurized doorway of the habitation dome since the night guards were replicants themselves. The chosen spot for the first replicant graveyard was a sheltered, level denture between two rocky outcrops that during day would have a wider view over the ocher Martian landscape, only a twenty minute drive away from the gate. 

 

Hard physical labor with the environmental suits on was never comfortable. The digging took them more than an hour, even if they had help from two replicants. The casket was lowered down into the pit with two lines under a vault of pale stars. Once they finished covering the grave with sand, the replicants stood silently by as he and Thomas marked the spot with a small pyramid of meticulously piled stones. When they were ready, Thomas said a few words that were shared over the radios on their helmets.

“Julian, we will not forget you, Guy-Man and I. You were bright, and curious, and full of life. Thank you for the privilege of getting to know you.” There had been too many dead friends during World War Terminus they never got to bury, too many tears never shed. Now, this excruciating moment would repeat itself to infinity with every replicant they ever befriended. Sorrow squeezed Guy-Manuel’s throat. Uselessly, he blinked inside his helmet, reaching for Thomas’ hand. 

“Goodbye, Julian.” Guy-Manuel whispered, brokenly. Thomas pulled him into a hug, and Guy-Manuel desperately clasped his friend back, hanging on tight. 

 

For so many times, he had relied on Thomas to carry them through, and he had never failed him. Yet again, Thomas took care of him. They all boarded the rover, and Thomas asked for the replicants to drive. At the back of the vehicle, Thomas detached the helmet and gloves from his own suit first before helping Guy-Manuel with his. Carefully, Thomas smoothed the strands of hair from Guy-Manuel's tear-tracked face, then he pressed their foreheads together while holding onto him, his thumb brushing tiny strokes over Guy-Manuel’s cheek bone. Guy-Manuel swallowed down sobs. 

“They will all die in four years. We will have to bury all our friends. The replicants…” Guy-Man’s words were cut off by Thomas’ feather light touch over his lips.

“I know, mon chéri. I know. It hurts, but we will have to bury all of them with dignity and remember them. We can give them at least that. We can also look for a contractor that will accept funding for replicant longevity research and give them our cells,” Thomas said. They gazed at each other in the eyes for what felt like an eternity. A quiet strength started slowly flowing into him, even if the pain would never subside completely. This was what his beloved friend always did: he offered you comfort, and then, a practical solution. He took Thomas’ hand and kissed it on the back, resting his chin on it for a few seconds. Still holding Thomas’ hand between his own, he gazed at his friend. Guy-Manuel inhaled deep and opened his mouth, but the words wouldn't slide out effortlessly, even after knowing and loving Thomas for years. 

“I…”

“I know. You too.” Thomas’ expression mellowed out, Guy-Manuel gave him a soft kiss on the lips before they realized they were being observed. Pamela, the replicant who wasn’t driving, stared at them unabashedly. Sebastian too, who was supposed to drive them safely back, was staring more at the rear mirror than at the road ahead. Later, the story of the first replicant burial would spread across the off-world colonies. Crydamoure would be presented as utterly broken down by grief, the symbol of ultimate compassion. Roulé would give a fierce, determined speech on saving all replicants from oblivion, which exact wording would vary greatly based on who was retelling the story, and the moment would be commemorated as the start of the replicant liberation. It was a fact though that, in the years to come, the replicants would start burying each other in beautiful spots under the night sky. 

 

Year 2016

 

In 2013, the year Crydamoure and Roulé released their fourth studio album, they traveled light years for their tour. _Random Access Memories_ had been an unmitigated success both among the human population and the replicant circles. Each time, somebody played one of their songs somewhere in the Orion arm of the Milky Way Galaxy, money was uploaded to their joint account. Their wealth had accumulated to unexpected proportions anyway due to their shares in the Rosen Association that had been eventually merged with Tyrrell Corporation. This way, Tyrrell Corporation became the main source of funding for the replicant resistance. Guy-Manuel and Thomas would never advocate the use of violence or endorse killing humans, but they were not surprised when the uprising started turning bloody. Their songs had become replicant anthems that were passed on from one replicant generation to another, as short-lived as they were. The music had both an soothing effect on the replicants and it gave them an emotional outlet as well. They met with rebel replicants in every spot of their off-world tour, assisting them with organizing the troops and funding. 

 

The illegal replicant raves and concerts arranged in the Space Colonies weren’t that different from the ones in the 1990s France. You had to follow clues left in pop-up internet sites to find out the actual location of the event or access the livestream. The venues varied from warehouses suitable for raves to small transparent habitat domes that could only fit the two of them with their gear. The latter times the views around their makeshift stages were always magnificent. The rings of Saturn could be seen behind them on Iapetus, a red sunset on Proxima Centauri. They provided official corporation approved entertainment, too, both to human and replicant audiences, always disgustingly separated, but in those official concerts the mood was always more frivolous with humans and more sedate with replicants. 

 

They started their next album with a specific purpose in mind. Their aim was a musical presentation of the entire history of existence from the beginnings of the universe to the liberation struggles of the replicants. _Human/Robot_ mutated into a monster album, an electronic symphony in two parts. You could download the album by clicking a picture of the Orion Nebula, which in the past would have been their album cover. The rest of the promo pics were exceptionally sexy for them. How Thomas had ever managed to talk Guy-Manuel into undressing for the photo shoot was beyond him. The pictures unfolded as the tracks played out. You could see parts of their naked bodies, excluding their faces, held and caressed by the other one’s gloved robot hands. The money shots were Guy-Manuel’s naked upper body with Thomas’ silver-studded right hand over his left nipple whereas his left hand, fingers spread, rested low below Guy-Man’s belly button, teasing at what lay right outside the frame. In turn, there was a picture of Thomas’ naked back with Guy-Man’s golden hands cupping his behind underneath the dimples down his back. There was one shot that made Guy-Man blush though. He was pictured from behind with Thomas’ silver glove holding the back of his neck, and you could imagine what was happening from seeing Thomas’ leather-covered legs behind Guy-Man’s naked body.

 

The album tracks were:  
Part A. Human  
Big Bang  
Genesis  
Black Hole Blues  
Intergalactic Void  
The Song of Supernova  
Panspermia  
Survival of the Fittest  
Sentience  
Paradise Lost

Part B. Robot  
Terminus  
Re-Genesis  
Mortal Engines  
Interstellar Voyage  
Android Dream  
Music Reborn  
Man Versus Machine  
Deus Ex Machina  
Cosmic Love

It was a matter of pride for them that two tracks from their album, Mortal Engines and Android Dream, were banned in the United States. Yet, the album went on to win five Grammies in 2018, and they bought a spaceship of their own with their earnings. 

 

Year 2024

 

The sound of firing bullets startled him up from his reverie. Guy-Manuel had just finished packing up their sound systems, music interfaces, and robot outfits into their ship on the roof and was backpacking the few personal items he and Thomas owned. After grabbing his pulse rifle and the backpack, he cautiously stepped out into the corridor. He hated guns, even if he knew how to use one. Every first generation space colonizer had to pass military training before leaving Earth for Mars. Even from its beginning the Race for Space Colonization had been marked by heavy, if not bloody competition between corporations and the nation states left after the wreckage of World War Terminus. By necessity, the weapon had become one more instrument Guy-Manuel could wield over the years.

 

On the corridor, Pedro and Mehdi were running towards him, both men fully geared up and armed. Together, they entered the nearest fire exit guns first, when they felt an explosion under their feet. Their attackers had probably thrown a hand grenade somewhere beneath their feet.

“Roulé.” Guy-Manuel whispered at Pedro, and he didn’t need to raise his voice to convey the urgency. Thomas was still in the medical rooms, waiting for the full recharge of his EEG upload, still unconscious and completely helpless. In fact, either Pedro or Mehdi were supposed to stay with him as long as the procedure lasted. The whole reboot process overall had taken more time than Guy-Manuel was comfortable with. The facilities on the Moon Base V on Ross 128b had been so rudimentary that Thomas had to work on the medical equipment for two weeks before their reboot was even possible in the first place. The only reason they had chosen this particular research hospital and laboratory was because it had been owned by a small private contractor that was easy to bribe and did not ask questions. Now, the human operated laboratory probably had the bad luck of being attacked by the violent paramilitary wing of replicant rebels, who had no idea that Roulé and Crydamoure were on the premises. A paralyzing fear for Thomas started gripping his insides.

“We need to get you to the roof,” Pedro said to him, standing on his way.

“What? No, we need to get to the basement right now!” Guy-Manuel shouted, despite of the fear of being heard.

“I’m sorry, sir. We have a direct order from Roulé to save you first in the event the safety of the both of you is compromised at the same time.”

“You can’t obey an order like that! We need to get to Roulé, now.” Guy-Manuel said. “He has no right to order…” Guy-Manuel continued when he felt the pinprick of a syringe on his neck. He shot Mehdi a look of betrayal as he grabbed Guy-Manuel from behind. 

“I’m sorry, Crydamoure. It is the only thing he has ever made us promise. He said you were his heart, that you were the one that kept him fighting.” There was no way Pedro would break his promise to Roulé, who had saved his life and even named him, yet Guy-Manuel was desperate.

“No! Please, go get him. I beg you!” The electricity in the stairway was cut off at the same time he lost consciousness. 

;

 

The medical room was empty. Plaster had fallen off the ceiling, and the gear was in disarray. No signs of human struggle or traces of blood inside, most importantly no dead body. The control room had been empty too, the two laboratory technicians supervising the reboot had most likely fled at the first sounds of gunfire. Crydamoure was standing in his signature outfit of leather and a golden helmet next to an empty gurney clutching at his most recent identity tag in his hand. Pedro and Mehdi, stood in the hallway, assault rifles at ready and alert. Absolute panic was overwhelming him. Thomas had forged their latest identity codes and names right before their memory reboot, and Guy-Manuel hadn’t had time to learn Thomas’ latest information. Therefore, he had no way of finding Thomas in the future. Even if the new identity tag, the golden pendant with Guy-Man’s EEC, and a few currency chips had been in the pockets of Thomas' favorite cargo pants at the moment of the rebel strike. With one last brush on his own new identity tag -his new name, _Guy-Manuel de la Coeur_ , one final note from Thomas-, Guy-Man set on to hook up a small power source on the lab computer. He needed to run diagnostics on the reboot program to find out how far had Thomas been along before formatting everything clean. Usually, this would have been Thomas’ job. The sensations of solitude and worry crashed over him in waves.

 

Guy-Manuel refused to leave the moon base, no matter how much Pedro insisted the whole satellite was compromised, until he was absolutely certain Thomas had departed the moon, too. There had been several concurrent rebel assaults around the moon, and the UN Space Navy had been sent to quell the rebellion. The result had been a mass evacuation off the satellite. The manifests of all departing ships since their separation from Thomas were uploaded to their ship’s computer. There had been dozens of injured John Does boarded on different cargo and transportation ships destined all across the inhabited space. Also, they would have to track several passengers named Thomas recorded on ship manifests. Crydamoure would have to stay on tour for the unforeseeable future.

 

Without Thomas, Guy-Manuel felt like a zero without one. Loosing him hurt like the constant phantom pain of a missing limb. On the outside, he was interminable action, ceaselessly working for the defense of the replicants or on his music. Every step he took was a calculated move to turn one more stone to find his friend. On the inside, he was irreparably torn. In his heart, there was a hole that nothing could fix. For two months, Pedro and Mehdi walked on eggshells around him. They tried apologizing, but Guy-Manuel did not want to hear it. If Thomas had judged him to be worth saving first, then Guy-Manuel would just have to suck it up and keep on the good fight. Their replicant bodyguards and friends couldn’t be blamed for obeying Thomas’ explicit request. 

 

Their ship, _Stella II_ , had an AI that presented itself on the ship’s screen as a blue-skinned blond-haired anime character, because that was how Thomas’s sense of humor rolled. Stella II was the hyperspace jump capable equivalent to a private jet. It had a sleek, oblong-shaped body two stories high that was punctured from the middle by a disc-shaped cold fusion anti-gravity engine. The cargo, the music studio and the access to the engineering were on the lower deck, whereas the cockpit, pantry, and crew cabins were on the upper. The ship had been built for eight passengers, but now, without Thomas, there was only the three of them. They had all been responsible for the ship’s maintenance and they could follow the AIs repair instructions, but Thomas had been absolutely fascinated by the ship’s complicated technology. He used to spend hours studying each component and system on board. Out of the two of them, Thomas had been the superior systems engineer, but Guy-Man would have to step up and learn more. Lost in his thoughts, Guy-Manuel would catch himself staring at a bundle of optical fiber like he had never seen one before. Sometimes, he would fall asleep on the console he was supposed to update. He would wake up with a crick in the neck, painfully missing Thomas.

 

Somewhere out there, Thomas was depending on him to be found. He might have been permanently injured, or amnesiac, or both. Based on the diagnostics Guy-Manuel ran in the lab, the electroencephalographic reboot hadn’t ran its full course with Thomas. It was possible that Thomas didn’t recall Guy-Manuel at all. What hurt most though wasn't that possibility, but the very thought that Thomas might not remember the basic truth of their lives, that he could always rely on his Guy-Man. 

 

Year 2028

 

“Crydamoure, we have a problem.” Mehdi buzzed the door to his cabin. They had barely lifted off from the outskirts of Neo Tokyo on Proxima Centauri III. Guy-Manuel had just mixed a two hour set on the last underground rave of his tour through the colonies outside Sol system. There was still no sign of Thomas. His heart was pounding, and he had just removed his helmet with the sweat still cooling off on his face. 

“What is it?” He sighed.

“There’s a freeloader on board, boss.”

 

How was it possible? Stella, their ships AI, was incredibly advanced and protective of her crew. Mehdi lead him down to the engine room where Pedro had his gun pointed at a young man hugging a sticker-decorated interface pad on his chest. The slim and short kid had long black hair and huge smart glasses on his prominent nose. As soon as he saw Guy-Man, his face lit up like a Christmas tree. 

“Crydamoure.” The kid exhaled. Pedro and Mehdi both gave him a worried glance. Even if he had discarded the helmet, Guy-Manuel was still wearing his signature leather and gloves, and the ever-present silver pendant was hanging on his chest. Damn. 

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but you have me confused with someone I’m not,” he said anyway, in the flattest voice he could muster. “You do realize you’re in danger of being thrown out of an airlock?”

“No, it must be you. You landed on the rave in this ship, and Busy P and DJ Mehdi, these two goo… guys have been performing before your shows for years.” The kid insisted. “And because you’re Crydamoure, I know you won’t throw me out. You care for all replicants.” Agreeing or disagreeing on nothing, Guy-Manuel stepped forward to pull off the kid's glasses before Mehdi had time to stop him. 

“Please, look up.” Guy-Manuel asked, in a much kinder tone. The adoration and trust evident in the kid’s little speech had both embarrassed and humbled him. The letters S-M003X branded on the lower part of the kid's eyeball told a story long enough for Guy-Manuel to give him the benefit of the doubt. “What did you name yourself?” 

“My name is Skrillex.”

“So tell me, Skrillex, how did you board my ship?” Guy-Manuel ordered in a kind tone that yet did not brook argument. Pedro glowered at the kid, still holding a sidearm in front of his face.

“I’m very good with system hacking and decryption. I camouflaged my presence from Stella by inserting a system check protocol during the rave that allowed for an airlock to let me in. I did not do any harm to your AI, I swear. I just wanted to meet Crydamoure. Please, let me stay with you.”

“I’m sorry Skrillex, but there are no job vacancies on Stella. I can take you wherever you want to go on this planet, but then we’re off.” Guy-Manuel slipped Skrillex’ glasses back on and turned to nod at Pedro to lower down his weapon. 

“I could help you find Roulé,” the kid said, stopping Guy-Manuel on his tracks. 

“Roulé fell four years ago.” Guy-Manuel stated, averting his gaze from the others. Skrillex continued. 

“Everybody thought he had died, when you started performing alone. But I saw your flight plan. Your route has traced ships and passengers from a certain point of origin for years. It’s the most prominent non-essential log on your ship’s computer. The person you’re looking for must be someone really important to you. Who else could it be but Roulé?” Guy-Manuel stared back at the kid again. When he flinched, Guy-Manuel smoothed out his severe expression. They had been looking for Thomas for so long already, and the task wasn’t getting any easier. They could use the skills of another hacker. Maybe, this earnest young replicant was the change of pace they -he- needed to renew his search. Guy-Manuel tried to smile.

“You think you can help me? And what do you know about Roulé and I?” 

“It was always the two of you. You were the first. I have watched _Electroma_ more times than I can count, and I have watched all your holographic concerts that can be downloaded from the replicant black net. My favorite show is Alive 2017 from the ice world on Kepler 22b. Seeing and hearing you and Roulé play _Cosmic Love_ live for the first time, I knew I could become anything I wanted to, that I belonged to the universe as much as any regular human. I was adopted via illegal means by a human couple straight from the factory and implanted with childhood memories from their biological child who had passed away. For two years, everybody, except me, knew the truth that I wasn’t their real child. When I found out I was a replicant, your music became my new home.” Guy-Manuel felt what was left of his heart break. Countless replicants had told Guy-Manuel their life story, and he guarded those memories like precious jewels. Each story had left an imprint on him and on Thomas, too.

“You can stay if you like, on one condition.” Guy-Manuel said, after the long silence that had descended on the engine room. “You’ll get to teach me everything you know about hacking.” The change in the kid was instant. Skrillex perked up and jumped in for hug with such force Guy-Manuel had to take two steps back, but he hugged the kid in return. 

 

Sometimes, the physical yearning would take over, and he hired someone who reminded him of Thomas by the hour on the space ports they were staying in. Never a replicant though. The replicants deserved a hell of a lot more than to be used in his miserable attempts at substituting his best friend. He wouldn’t have had to pay for sex either. There were a lot people practically offering themselves both at the artist Guy-Man de la Coeur as well as Crydamoure, the symbolic figurehead of replicant rebellion, but he preferred his sexual encounters impersonal. Since he wouldn’t get emotionally involved with his partners, he didn’t want anyone to make the mistake of getting their feelings mixed up in return. Most of the time though, he took on his loneliness and chosen celibacy like a devoted monk. 

 

The nights, especially, felt interminable without Thomas. Often, he lied wide awake on the cold sheets of his bunk with only the echo of Thomas’ presence as his company. Obsessively holding onto the flashing images of Thomas’ touch, he feared any day he would loose what little he had left of his beloved friend. There were two crew cabins in Stella, and he stayed in the other one alone ever since Thomas disappeared, so nobody saw if sometimes tears were hanging on the corners of his eyes. If he still tossed and turned in bed after two hours, he permitted himself a sleeping pill. He had been just about to chug back one the night when Skrillex came to his door. 

“If I have to be the third wheel with Mehdi and Busy P for one more night, I will blow my brains out.” Skrillex stood on the doorway dressed in a T-Shirt and shorts for the night with his thermal duvet wrapped around him. 

“And what? You decided to become a bicycle with me instead?” Guy-Manuel asked, slightly more amused than annoyed, a common state of mind for him in Skrillex’ company. 

“Nah, you never take anyone back here with you. I know. I asked,” Skrillex said, climbing in next to Guy-Manuel. For a moment, Guy-Manuel thought of pushing him out, but then, he simply scooted back on the bunk drawing his own duvet around him. They reminded of two cocooned butterflies nested together. Guy-Manuel could only see strands of Skrillex’ hair from the bedding, and oddly, the closeness of the kid nearly lulled him into sleep. 

“What is it like to love somebody the way you do?” Skrillex asked quietly in the darkness.

“Once you love, you never feel alone again. Yet, it can be the loneliest feeling. You would do anything for the person you love, like I would search for Roulé to the end of the world. At the same time, if the person you love ever asked you to leave them in peace you would, if you truly loved them. Love is most often painful, yet once you’ve had it you would never give it up,” Guy-Manuel said, surprising himself by his own openness, even if he had been half asleep for his answer. Skrillex rolled over on the bed. Guy-Manuel could imagine a pair of brown eyes peering at him in the dark. 

“Wow, I’m not sure I could live like that.”

“Love can be something you choose, but more often, it just comes to you unexpected.” Guy-Man smiled wistfully in the darkness of the cabin, but he couldn’t help teasing the kid. “You never know, Skrillex. You might meet the replicant love of your life in the next space port we land. Then, you’d be the one kicking me out on the hallway with awkward noises of your own.”

“Oh, shut up, boss!” Skrillex poked at him, painfully on the chest. “You wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in the same cabin with those two.” Just for a moment, it didn’t hurt to laugh. 

 

Year 2029

 

Luckily, if you had money and connections -and Crydamoure had both-, you could make the serial code in a Nexus-8 replicant’s eyeball disappear without the replicant having to gouge his eye out. At first, Skrillex had been hesitant to go under the laser of a human Japanese eye engineer, but the possibility of freedom from detection had persuaded him. They couldn’t do anything for the tags on his skeleton, but those wouldn’t be visible until after his flesh rotted out, and Crydamoure had no intention of letting him die. 

 

It had finally been time to return to Earth. After four years, Guy-Manuel had exhausted all the off-world leads for Thomas. There were several countries on Earth he would have to visit, and he picked Japan first, because the clubs in Tokyo always hired new licensed musicians. Once he announced his decision to travel alone to Earth, Pedro and Mehdi had been devastated. Guy-Manuel refused to risk the lives of his two oldest and closest friends. They were too important for the rebellion anyway, and somebody had to take care of Stella II. The replicant duo would keep touring the colonies and supporting the replicants wherever they could. 

 

Skrillex had insisted on following him, and Guy-Manuel hadn’t managed to convince him otherwise. No matter the risk, the kid had been adamant. He had become an artist on his own right, too. His electronic music differed much from Crydamoure’s and Roulé’s. It was paced faster, more abrasive and aggressive, but undeniably, it reflected the anger, fear, and frustration of replicant existence. 

 

Year 2034

 

“Skrillex, come here!” Guy-Manuel shouted at him, eyes fixed on the wall-length screen of their two bedroom hotel suite in Chicago. “Every other project you have, drop them. You see this?” Skrillex saw an infomercial that had been set to run on a loop, a feature people rarely switched on. _Detective Thomas La Bouche, Greater LA Special Police Force_ , declared the blurb next to an officer lecturing on the marvelous details of a new police spinner. The guy looked tall and skinny in his charcoal slim fit suit, and way too inoffensive and sympathetic for someone who hunted down their kind and murdered them, in Skrillex’ opinion. Looking stunned, Guy-Man kept staring at the screen. His fist was clutching at his silver pendant, knuckles white. “I want you to find everything about the man. Is he an actual detective or just an actor hired for the ad? Where exactly does he work in LA? His identity code, his home address. I want access to his home web, I want eyes on his apartment 24/7. I want to know what he surfs online…”

“Geez, boss. You want me to find out his shoe size, too? What he has for breakfast? Shouldn’t we stay away if this guy’s actually a blade runner?” Skrillex grumbled. It was New Year’s Eve, and he had a party with a hot date planned. However, Crydamoure only gave him direct orders when it was absolutely important. 

“43. Cricket granola.” Guy-Man muttered under his breath. “Compare the name and the identity code to the passenger logs on Stella’s database. And forget about the home web, I’ll hack it myself as soon as you get me the address.” Skrillex finally added two plus two at Crydamoure’s unusual request. He reached out to squeeze Crydamoure’s shoulder and asked him quietly. 

“Is he really Roulé?” They had looked for him for so long, that in the past few years Skrillex had been mostly focused on helping replicants to either escape Earth or disappear in the system. Still, Crydamoure planned their travel route based on the old log, and Skrillex knew the other had never stopped searching for his beloved partner. 

“It is him, or his identical twin.” The joke fell out flat. So, this was the man, the replicant, Crydamoure had literally crossed space and time to find. They gazed at the officer in silence, the animated and sincere way he communicated with the long-legged and well-endowed reporter, clearly ignoring her assets for the vehicle. Roulé looked young to him, Skrillex’ age at most, even if Skrillex knew both Roulé and Crydamoure had been around at least since WWT. Roulé couldn’t be called exactly handsome, yet there was something very appealing to his oval face, the line of his jaw, his long nose, and his high cheekbones. His disarming smile was a burst of sunshine breaking out behind dark clouds, and Skrillex saw how this strange man could have perfectly complemented his taciturn boss. Roulé and Crydamoure, the two special replicants, who had given him music and life. 

“We will know everything about him before this year is over, boss. We can leave for LA tomorrow if you want.” Skrillex gave him a quick hug from behind, as Crydamoure still didn’t tear his eyes off the screen. 

 

Year 2035 

 

“If my man Starboy there says I can trust you, you’re fine by me.” Pharrell Williams pointed at Starboy, who was lying face down on a massage table on the other side of the glass. “But I want to know what you’d be getting out of investing in my club? You’re big in Japan, Europe and the Space Colonies, and I know you have money, but we both know night clubs only turn quick profit by illegal means. Also, I would have preferred having this conversation not naked,” Pharrell said. Guy-Manuel could have almost believed in fate when they found out Thomas’ friend had a connection to Starboy, one of the most notorious replicant hackers in the States. Guy-Manuel tied up the belt of his white terry cloth bath gown, before they started walking along the stoned pathway between two meticulously raked beds of sand in the _onsen’s_ garden. 

“These bathhouses are great places for private conversations. And you can’t hide a gun naked, can you?” Guy-Manuel joked. He was feeling very mellow and serene. For once, things were gliding smoothly, exactly the way he wanted. “You haven’t informed on Starboy, even if you know what he is and what he works for, but you have treated him like a human, and I respect that. However, the most important reason for my investment is that we need access to the Special Police Force through your friend Thomas La Bouche. I want you to introduce me to him very soon. There is something we will be doing in this city, and we will need to keep an eye on blade runners.” Pharrell stopped by the koi pond in the middle of the garden. Among a white and red patterned school of fishes, there was one silver koi and another one in gold, swimming in circles around each other. 

“Thomas is a good guy for a cop, and I owe him. So, you better make sure he doesn’t get caught between blade runners and whatever you guys need to do.” It was both a warning and a threat judging by Pharrell’s cold expression. 

“If I said the safety of Thomas La Bouche is my top priority, would you believe me?” Pharrell had no way of knowing how serious Guy-Manuel was. For months, Thomas had been so close Guy-Manuel could almost taste him. He was ashamed to have bugged Thomas' home, even if it was for the greater good. Guy-Manuel wanted nothing more than to contact him. Yet, there was much to do before they could reunite, and anyhow, Thomas was clearly suffering from severe amnesia regarding his past. The rebellion couldn’t miss the chance of infiltrating a blade runner department, as they launched their information broadcasts on LA. Starboy had had the tactics and the code for Trojan files on standby for a year. The hacker rebel leader had only lacked a suitable face for the Liberation Army to make their first move, but now, Starboy had finally Crydamoure' assistance. Every pre-Nexus 9 replicant would recognize him and most likely rally behind him. “I’ll make a deal with you, Pharrell. You help us get in with the Special Police Force, and I’ll personally keep Thomas safe. It'll be my pleasure.” Pharrell looked at him for a second, weirdly, before bursting into a laugh and shaking his head. 

“You got yourself a deal, robot guy. You're exactly his type, anyway.” 

 

Year 2037

 

“Boss, I can’t leave you alone with him. Who’s gonna take care of you? I know he’s Roulé, but he’s only discovering how he created _Rollin’ & Scratchin’_!” Skrillex huffed, arms crossed over his chest. They were both observing Thomas, who was toying around in an impromptu old school studio they had mounted at the penthouse suite of the Venetian Hotel. Bent over the machines with childlike glee, Thomas kept plugging and unplugging a cable, unmistakably creating the familiar sounds of the early Daft Punk song. Guy-Manuel felt like his heart was about to burst out of tenderness. It had been both weird and exhilarating to witness Thomas falling for him again. At the same time, it was wonderful to see what was the purest essence of his friend, regardless of his remembered life experience. If Guy-Manuel was honest with himself, he was falling head over heels with this version of his friend too. This Thomas felt so very unmarred by the past, free, and joyful. The eternal light to Guy-Manuel’s shadow.

“You do realize I’m actually 63 years old, and I don’t need a babysitter?” Guy-Manuel said to Skrillex, hooking an arm around his shoulder. “Maybe, it’s my turn take care of somebody else? Besides, it’s your turn to shine. Starboy wants you to headline the new underground music broadcasts. You’ve been the most requested act. You’re going to be too busy to miss me, and you will be able to contact me on Stella whenever you want.” 

“I’m going to tell them where to land, so we don’t spoil your surprise,” Skrillex said, still pouting. “And don’t think you’ll get rid of me that easy.” He shouted.

“Oh, I know by now you’re like herpes. You never leave.” Guy-Manuel laughed at his leaving back.

 

Guy-Man stepped closer to Thomas, who was now pulling noises out of the system that sounded eerily like the final minutes of _Rock’n Roll_. 

“This sounds awesome! I should make a track out of it.” Thomas glanced at him, and his smile dropped. “We’ve already done that, haven’t we?” It was uncanny how quickly he had re-learned to read Guy-Manuel’s facial expressions and moods. Thomas stepped over and embraced him, pressing his face to the top of Guy-Manuel’s hair, a gesture that before their separation had annoyed Guy-Manuel to no end. It had always reminded him of being the shorter one. Now, he could have spent an entire day with his head pressed to Thomas' narrow chest, listening to his heartbeat. _He_ should have used the beat for a track. “I know we agreed that I shouldn’t recover everything about our past at once, but I think it’s time I listened through our whole discography. The music is there right beneath the surface. I need to recognize what is old stuff, so I can compose something new.” Thomas said pulling back to gaze at Guy-Manuel in the eyes, his fingers twisting in his hair, cradling the back of Guy-Manuel’s head. “I want to create music with you again.”

“That’s all I want to do with you, too,” Guy-Manuel said, and suddenly, all the gravity in the universe was drawing them to each other again. If he didn’t break the tension, in two seconds, they would be making out like bunnies in the king-sized bed of their suite. He looked at Thomas’ lips and grinned lasciviously. “Well, music's not the _only_ thing I want to do with you.” Thomas was smiling again, shy in an unbearably cute way.

“I should hope so,” he said, and Guy-Manuel had to kiss that smile.

 

“It's your birthday, and I have something to show you,” Guy-Manuel said, once their lips had heated up the atmosphere again. “A surprise present, if you will.”

“How old am I exactly?” Thomas asked, letting himself be lead by the hand to the helipad on the hotel roof.

“Not as old as I am,” Guy-Man shouted at him over the hum of Stella’s engine as the ship landed in all its white and silver glory, switching off its drive. “Joyeux anniversaire, mon ami! This space ship is yours.” The gobsmacked wonder on Thomas’ face was something so funny and endearing that Guy-Manuel teased him about it for years to come.


End file.
